


Going back

by alljustletters



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor (Comics), Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, The Night of the Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alljustletters/pseuds/alljustletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clothes make the man. A Time Lord even more so.</p><p>Fanfiction pre "The Night of the Doctor", in which I wonder about his outfit change and cry a lot. No, seriously, this was utterly painful to write, I hope you appreciate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paul McGann (you terrible cunt)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Paul+McGann+%28you+terrible+cunt%29).



He drags himself into the room, his breath goes in gasps and sputters of blood, one hand manages to find that big button he once called _Lucie To Drive_ , once, way back, in another life. It’s really nothing but a fast-track dematerialisation switch, and when it cannot home in on the double beat of his hearts, it leaves the ship drifting through the Vortex. Drifting is all he wants right now.  
There’s a shard in his chest and he knows he should get to the sickbay to remove it, but that just seems like more effort than he deserves. It hurts when he pulls it out, hurts enough for his vision to blur, yet he only lets out a hiss. Loud noises are reserved for the living.  
Slowly, stiffly, he sinks down on the floor and back against the console, legs spread apart, head resting on the cool metal. The faces have imprinted themselves onto his retinas, faces twisted in pain and horror. This war demands the lives of bystanders first and foremost and all he can do is watch. He isn’t strong enough to save them all, he isn’t strong enough to even save a few. So what is the purpose of him?  
His clothes are in shreds, he knows that, of course he does. One side of his jacket is completely burnt, falling apart under his very movements. He has worn them ever since it started, ever since before, but they refuse more and more to serve him. It’s almost like letting go of a memory when he finally sheds himself of the leather that hasn’t been blue anymore for ages.  
The heating is still broken. At some point, he has decided not to fix it. The cold water running over him barely stings either way. Eyes closed, he feels for the wound on his chest that is already closing again, and on the back of his lids there’s a cinema display of torn flesh that doesn’t heal as quickly as his and he suppresses a scream because he can’t just hand it over, he would if he could, but he can’t and those people die from what he survives.  
Hours have passed when he searches the corridors for wherever his wardrobe might be. The TARDIS doesn’t take her battles well, she’s confused and wounded and angry at him for letting her suffer. His hand brushes a wall as he passes, making it reverberate with the message of his guilt, but then again she already knows he’s sorry. It doesn’t change a thing, he always forces her back into the fire.  
The wardrobe has merged with the library. A stray butterfly, flushed by the sudden entrance, heads towards the ceiling to find a more peaceful seat upon the chandelier. He barely deigns to look at it. Now, what does he need? Trousers, a shirt, shoes. Boots perhaps, they’ll sustain a while longer. A coat of some sort.  
His fingers meet something soft, velvety soft while going through the clothes on the rail. Some seams are torn, bleeding loose strings onto his skin, but it’s definitely the same frock. He still remembers the day he chose to exchange it for dark leather. Too many stains on the fabric, tears and blood and loneliness, and somehow he could swear it still smells of them, of Grace and Charley and Lucie, of sweets and the spirit of adventure and –  
Of course he knows he cannot bring them back. Neither the people nor the times. But his hands choose a paisley waistcoat and a dark frock almost with a mind of their own. It’s not the same ones he started out with, the ones found in a hospital (why did he never ask himself who would keep such a costume in a hospital before now?), but that’s only right. He isn’t the same either. It’s just … he wished he were.


End file.
